Confessions of a Royal Bridegroom

CHAPTER Seventeen




After checking on Rose and the baby, Justine made her way to the main floor where she had earlier glimpsed a library off the entrance hall. Dominic’s manor house, unobtrusively tucked away in a corner of Sussex and set well back off a country lane, settled around her with a quiet hush, finally peaceful after the bustle of their late-afternoon arrival.

Despite her fatigue and the strains of the day, she knew sleep would elude her. There was too much to think on—the baby, the potential danger to them all, and, of course, her new husband and how she truly felt about him.

So far, Griffin had shown a great deal of consideration for the awkwardness of the situation. On their arrival, he’d taken charge of the arrangements, placing Justine in a comfortable bedroom on the same floor as a nursery that was surprisingly well-prepared to handle a baby and his wet nurse. Apparently, Dominic had sent word late last night, alerting the staff to prepare for their domestic invasion. After seeing women and baby safely disposed, Griffin had informed them that dinner would be sent up on trays and then had promptly disappeared.

Though Justine sensed his absence was his way of giving her time to adjust to the new arrangements, she nonetheless felt like he was avoiding her. She’d wondered most of the way to Sussex if he would insist on sleeping in her room, bolstering the fiction of their marriage. But he’d shown no desire to do so. There was no reason, after all, since the servants were in Dominic’s personal employ and therefore entirely to be trusted. Still, her husband seemed not the least inclined to spend time with her or continue with his campaign of seduction. Justine stoutly told herself she didn’t want that in any event, and that she was just fine on her own. Rose and the baby gave her more company than she needed, and would keep her busy. Dancing attendance on Griffin—whether he wanted her to or not—was certainly not part of Justine’s plan.

Of course, he might simply be sick of both female and infant companionship, which was understandable after their journey. Even she could admit it had been a gruesome exercise.

They’d started out well enough. She and Griffin had taken the town coach to Aden and Vivien’s house shortly after breakfast, as if they were calling for a morning visit. They’d slipped out through the back garden, cutting through the mews to meet up with Phelps, Rose, and the baby, who had escaped detection by sneaking out through the back of The Golden Tie and making their way by hackney to meet up with them. They had then all crammed into a nondescript traveling carriage—with shades drawn, of course—and departed London, hoping to escape notice in the throngs of people and vehicles lumbering out of the city every day.

Justine’s father would have thoroughly enjoyed the melodrama, but all it accomplished for her was to make her bad-tempered. Rose obviously shared that feeling, since she’d grumbled various imprecations about villainous thugs and the inconvenience of early morning travel. Stephen also didn’t take well to the journey, fussing and crying much of the way into Sussex. Fortunately, Rose managed to curtail the worst of it by hauling down her bodice and plunking him onto her breast at regular intervals.

The first few times the young woman had so casually disrobed herself, with Griffin and Phelps so close on the opposite seat, Justine had been more than slightly aghast. But Phelps hadn’t turned a hair and Griffin had simply lifted a mocking eyebrow at Justine before tipping his hat forward over his eyes and going to sleep. It was an impressive display of insouciance that Justine could only envy. She consoled herself by noting that since both men worked in a brothel they were obviously inured to the sight of bosoms, even very impressive ones like Rose’s.

But by the time they had reached the manor house in Sussex, even Griffin’s temperament was showing the strain. Several hours buttoned up in a coach with a fretful baby, four adults, and an assortment of bandboxes and bags—stopping infrequently as to minimize contact with anyone who could possibly identify them—would try even the most patient of saints. As Justine very well knew, there were no saints in their little band of escapees.

So, she really couldn’t blame Griffin for disappearing soon after they’d arrived. It had been a trying day and the poor man deserved a respite from the catalog of troubles heaped on his doorstep—troubles that included her. If Justine had a particle of sense she would take herself off to bed for a much-needed rest, leaving Griffin to whatever he was up to.

And she did have every intention of doing just that once she found a book that might help read her to sleep. Well, that’s what she told herself, since it made no sense and would have been highly improper if she were, in fact, looking to run into a husband who clearly would have sought her out if he wished to see her.

Or seduce her.

Justine mentally scolded herself for those scandalous thoughts as she reached the bottom of the stone staircase. Perhaps Griffin, caught up in the moment last night, had wanted to seduce her, but that moment had clearly passed. Only a fool would regret it.

The ubiquitous Phelps appeared from a cross-corridor leading off the old-fashioned and squarely practical entrance hall where Justine stood. “Mrs. Steele, can I be getting you anything?”

Initially, she’d been surprised that Phelps had come with them on the journey, but she should have realized that Griffin wouldn’t travel anywhere without him. The odd, wiry man served as factotum, valet, and butler all rolled into one, always available and ready to handle any crisis. Dominic’s people could be trusted, of course, but in the unsettling circumstances, Justine took comfort from seeing a familiar and reliable face.

That she should come to think of Phelps as comforting—a man who’d helped run brothels and gaming clubs—told her just how far she’d stepped beyond the carefully controlled boundaries of her former life.

“I’m fine, thank you,” she replied. “Uncle Dominic’s house is very comfortable, don’t you think?”

“Yes, missus, very comfortable,” he said in a gloomy voice. “But I’ve never been one for the country.”

“No? But this seems such a pleasant place.”

Justine hadn’t realized that Dominic owned a manor house. Perhaps he used it in the course of his work, but it seemed more like the country seat of a gentleman. Not large, but well-maintained and elegantly appointed, without ostentation. From what she could tell, it was a comfortably compact house with a masculine decorating scheme of muted colors, polished wood, and classically elegant furniture. She had every intention of exploring it and the grounds she’d glimpsed from the carriage as soon as possible.

Her remark occasioned a morose sigh from Phelps. “It ain’t home is all I’ll say.”

“No, and I’m sure you must be missing Mrs. Phelps.” She hesitated for a moment, and then gave in to her curiosity. “Have you always lived in London?”

“Aye. Me and the missus used to run a snug little tavern near Covent Garden. Mr. Griffin fetched up there one day when he just come to London.” He gave a funny little snort. “Skinny runt, he was, just a lad with nary a clue how to get on. My Ellie took pity on him and fed him now and a bit, just to keep him from starvin’. But he never forgot it, did Mr. Griffin. When he bought The Cormorant, he up and offered positions in his house, and happy to take them we were, too. We’d had enough of being on our own, all the care and worries on us and precious little help. We knew Mr. Griffin would take care of us.”


Justine leaned against the banister rail, fascinated by the glimpse into Griffin’s past. “And when was that, Phelps? When did you come to work for him?”

The narrow little man seemed to recollect himself. “Oh, years ago, missus,” he said with a vague wave. “I don’t rightly remember. You’d best ask Mr. Griffin if you really want to know.”

She gave him a polite smile at the answer that typically greeted any question posed about Griffin.

“He’s waiting for you in the library,” Phelps added as she crossed the entrance hall. “Will you be wanting any tea?”

Justine’s step hitched, but she managed to hold back her surprise. “No, thank you. Not this late.”

She continued across the hall, mentally wincing at the thought that she was so lamentably predictable when it came to Griffin. Part of her wanted to turn tail and flee up the stairs, but that would surely brand her as a coward.

What in heaven’s name was there to be afraid of, anyway? Nothing was going to happen between them, of that she was certain.

Justine slipped into what appeared to be a combination library and drawing room. It was probably the largest room in the house, she guessed, with one wall covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases fashioned from polished rosewood. A great marble chimneypiece dominated another wall, topped by a magnificent pier glass in a gilded wood frame. Several brocaded chairs and sofas in muted shades of green and old gold were scattered in front of the chimneypiece, and an imposing rosewood desk stood at right angles to the bookshelves, clearly setting off that corner of the room as an office or study. All was pulled together by a plush carpet in shades of gold and cream that covered most of the floor’s surface. With the roaring fire behind noble brass dogs, the effect—despite the spaciousness of the room—was unexpectedly cozy, as if a large, happy family had just gone to bed, leaving the master to drink his brandy in peace.

Ensconced in a wing chair in front of the fireplace, and looking unnervingly like that imaginary lord of the manor, Griffin glanced over as she slipped into the room. He came to his feet with leisurely grace, placing his brandy on the small table beside his chair.

“I wondered when you would come exploring,” he said. “Is all well upstairs?”

She nodded, casting another curious glance around the room. Normally, Griffin insisted on a wealth of lamps and candles in any room he spent time in, clearly preferring a bright blaze of light and color. She’d always found it an ironic comment on a man whose life seemed to be lived in the shadows.

Tonight, however, there was only the crackling fire and a few branches of candles scattered about the room, barely illuminating the dim corners. Justine had become used to the bright lights and vibrant colors of Griffin’s house, and to the bustle of London. But now she found her body relaxing, seeming to breathe out a mental sigh of relief. These last few weeks had seen one assault after another on her senses and emotions. Only now, in the muted quiet of this lovely room, could she understand how much she’d been craving the peace and quiet of the country.

“Yes,” she replied as Griffin handed her to the matching armchair next to his. “The baby is asleep and Rose has finally stopped her grumbling.”

“Thank God. I thought Phelps was going to throttle her about two hours into the journey.”

Justine rounded her eyes at him. “Really? I could have sworn that was you.”

He laughed. “Touché, Madame Wife. Would you like a brandy?” He wandered over to a sideboard with a row of crystal decanters.

She sighed. “I’m sure I shouldn’t, but perhaps it will help me to sleep.”

“Think of it as medicinal.”

When he handed her a glass, she wrinkled her nose at the generous amount. “Mr. Steele, I do believe you are exercising a deleterious effect on my morals.”

He braced one hand on the fireplace mantel and studied her, looking both elegant and dangerous. Clothed mostly in black as always, with his long hair pulled back in a queue and with the faint scar carving down the side of his temple, he seemed plucked out of time and place. One could easily imagine him as a highwayman or buccaneer, or even the crime lord that so many believed him to be. But, somehow, he also looked at home in this domestic setting, as if he’d just sent the children off to bed and was finishing his brandy before he joined his wife upstairs.

Which, of course, would be her. She blinked, disconcerted by the sudden wave of longing that washed over her.

“One can only hope,” he murmured. His wickedly sensual smile made her lose her breath.

“Um, hope what?” she asked, having lost the thread of conversation.

“That I’m corrupting your morals. One does try one’s best, you know.”

She blushed and took a sip of brandy to cover her confusion. Fortunately, he didn’t pursue the line of conversation that she’d been stupid enough to initiate, instead lapsing into silence as he stared at the fire. She gradually relaxed, letting the strains of the day seep away.

“I was surprised to find you sitting here in the dark,” she finally said, “since you usually have every candle and lamp in the room at full blaze.”

He glanced at her. “I prefer the light but the dark doesn’t discomfort me. Surely you realize that by now.”

“And are you comfortable in the country? Rose told me that you never leave town. I wondered if it bothered you to be forced into exile with such a motley little band.”

“Rose talks too much,” he said drily. “And no one can force me to do anything I don’t want to do, Justine, which is another thing you should know by now.”

“Really?” she said, not hiding her doubt. “Because I can’t help feeling that you’ve been terribly put out by all of this. Not only by the baby but by being forced to marry me, as well.”

She finally allowed herself to acknowledge the guilt gnawing away at her, the guilt about how she had disrupted his life. True, hers had suffered as great an upheaval, but he had been saddled with a wife and responsibilities he’d never wanted, upsetting what had clearly been long-standing plans. She knew what it was to have one’s dreams thwarted, and she hated the idea that she’d done that to him.

He let out a disbelieving snort. “Don’t be a ninny, Justine. None of this is your fault. Well, charging to the rescue at The Golden Tie and revealing yourself was your fault, but I don’t hold that against you. You obviously weren’t thinking in a rational manner.”

“Thank you, I think.” She obviously didn’t agree with him, but there was no point in rehashing the subject. She also realized that he hadn’t answered her question. “So, you don’t mind spending time in the country?”

He sat down, stretching his booted legs to the fire and resting his glass on his flat stomach. “It’s not the most convenient time, given my business concerns, but, no, I don’t. I grew up in the country. I choose not to live there now, but a few weeks won’t kill me.”

Justine couldn’t help coming to alert. Finally, an opening into his past. “You grew up in Yorkshire, did you not?”

He hesitated for a few seconds, and she feared he wouldn’t answer.

“Yes,” he finally said, almost as if he doubted the truth of it. “In a windswept little village not far from South Kilvington.” He flashed a brief smile. “Not that you’ve ever heard of South Kilvington, I imagine.”


She put her untouched glass aside, propped her elbows on her knees, and rested her chin on her palms. “I haven’t, but it sounds rather lonely for a boy without much of a family. Who raised you?”

His voice sounded carefully dispassionate. “My mother’s uncle. My grandfather died a few months before I was born, and my mother was sent to live with Uncle Bartholomew until she delivered. And, as I told you before,” he added, a distasteful note creeping into his voice, “since my mother abandoned me at birth—”

“Yes, you did tell me,” she interrupted. Instinct told her that the best way to deal with Griffin in such matters was with as little fuss as possible. “So, once your mother left, it was just you and your great-uncle?”

He looked slightly disconcerted but shrugged it off. “Correct. And our housekeeper, of course. Mrs. Patterson was the closest thing I had to a mother, growing up. She took good care of me and whacked me when I misbehaved. Not the ideal situation, but it could have been worse.”

“I suppose it was a bit like my aunt Elizabeth,” Justine mused. “She was usually too busy with her radical friends to pay much attention to Matthew and me, but at least we had her to care for us. And she never whacked us, I’m happy to say.”

Griffin had been staring into the fire, but at that he turned his head to gaze at her. “Lucky you,” he said with a smile.

She thought about that for a moment. “Yes, I was lucky, because at least she loved me.” She mentally dodged the sense of melancholy threatening to take over the conversation. “And what did your uncle do? Was he a local squire, or a tradesman? I really know very little about that side of your family, which I believe is a lamentable state of affairs in a wife.”

Now she could see mischief glittering in his dark gaze. “He was a vicar.”

She slowly sat up straight, staring at him. “A vicar,” she repeated blankly.

He nodded.

“You were raised in a vicarage,” she said. She must sound like a simpleton, but she truly couldn’t believe it.

“Indeed,” he said, clearly enjoying her shock. “I was raised by a fire-and-brimstone, old-fashioned parson. Oddly, enough, Uncle Bartholomew was not a bad scholar, although he much preferred putting the fear of God into the Sunday congregation to studying Greek and Latin texts. My grandfather was the true intellectual and teacher in the family, and that was not something Uncle Bartholomew entirely approved of, particularly if one’s studies interfered with leading the flock.”

Justine felt a tickle in her throat. “How . . . how very interesting,” she said. “I must admit I’m still finding it a bit difficult to imagine you being raised by a country vicar.”

“You can imagine how I feel, then,” he replied with a wry grin. “The funny thing is, when I was a boy I wanted to be a minister. For quite a ridiculously long period of time, too.”

The tickling sensation moved down to her chest, then back into her throat. She swallowed, trying to keep it down, but a few strangled giggles escaped.

“It was the music, you see,” he said, obviously feeling he had to explain. “I thought something that beautiful couldn’t be all bad, even though Uncle Bartholomew and his sermons were immensely dreary. And I quite liked the Book of Common Prayer, too.”

Justine had just been managing to get herself under control but that last comment undid her, dissolving her into helpless laughter.

When Griffin’s eyes narrowed on her, she couldn’t help thinking that he did look rather stern and clerical, especially all dressed in black. Unfortunately, that thought did nothing to stem her hilarity.

“Really, Justine,” he said. “It’s not that amusing. You probably had all kinds of silly ideas when you were a child, too.”

“You’re right,” she said, pressing her fingertips to her damp eyes as she tried to contain herself. “It’s not that amusing.” But it was no good. The idea that Griffin, one of the most notorious men in London, grew up wanting to be a vicar was simply too absurd to contemplate. “It’s hilarious.”

This time, when she went off into whoops, he unleashed a reluctant, almost embarrassed grin. It was so charming and self-deprecating, and so unexpectedly vulnerable, that she wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

That alarming thought effectively curtailed much of her amusement. She hiccupped a few times and then brought herself under control.

“I’m sure you would have made a fine vicar,” she said. “After all, you do look very handsome in black, and you can certainly be stern and frightening when you put your mind to it.”

“Thank you, I think,” he replied in mocking echo of her earlier remark.

Justine reached for her glass and took a sip of brandy. Then she put it down and smoothed her hands over her skirts. “How did you end up in London, then, so far from everything you knew?”

His smile faded and his gaze fell to brooding once more, latching on to some point above the mantel. “When I was fourteen, my uncle died. After that, there was nothing to keep me in Yorkshire.”

She waited for several moments, sensing that he had more to say. But he didn’t say a word, his profile a grim line in the dancing glow of the firelight.

“You must have missed him,” she finally ventured.

A dark laugh greeted that observation. “Hardly, love. My uncle was a coldhearted prig if there ever was one. Never spared the rod nor spoiled the child, as far as I was concerned. He was afraid I would go the evil way of my parents and was determined to prevent such a horrific fate by any means, fair or foul.”

He turned his head to look at her, and her chest pulled tight to see the pain lurking behind his cynical reprobate’s gaze.

“Oh, the irony of that,” he finished in a voice no less sardonic for its quiet tones.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

She wanted to kick herself for letting her curiosity get the better of her, broaching topics so clearly painful to him. But what had she expected? His life was complicated. He was complicated, and often difficult and dangerous to deal with. Could such a man truly have been the product of a loving and peaceful childhood? She should have known it unlikely.

He drained his glass before answering her. “Don’t be sorry. He took me in when no one else would. He made sure I was properly fed, clothed, kept safe, and given a sound education. If he didn’t love me, well, God knows I didn’t love him, either.”

Justine’s heart ached for the little, unloved boy he’d been, abandoned by those who should have cherished him. She realized in that moment how truly lucky she was. Despite her unconventional and often chaotic life, she’d been loved. Without question and without regret. Griffin had been denied that gift and it had clearly left its mark on him, one that she was beginning to doubt could ever be erased.

No wonder he wanted to leave England, and with it all the heartbreak he’d known.

Griffin set his glass down with a click. “Not quite the fairy tale you were imagining, I suppose,” he said.

The thin scar on his face, touched by the light of the fire, stood pale against his tanned skin, like a silent symbol of all the ills he’d suffered over the years. She couldn’t help wondering what evil event had left that mark on him.

There was so much she wished to know about him, but she’d run out of energy to probe any further, at least for tonight. Nor would he tell her more, she suspected. She’d pried a good deal more out of him than she’d anticipated, and for now it was enough.

“Life never is,” she replied as she rose.

For once, he didn’t rise with her. His attention seemed once more on the leaping flames in the grate.

“I’ll bid you good night, sir,” Justine finally said.

When he didn’t answer, she slipped quietly from the room.